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Jumping into the ring, and into life, with Ali

Many of the writer's defining events are linked to the former boxing champion, who turns 65 today.

January 17, 2007|Davis Miller | Special to The Times

I first became a serious Muhammad Ali watcher in January 1964. He'd just turned 22, and was luminous as he prepared to meet Sonny Liston for what was then the biggest prize in sport -- the boxing heavyweight championship of the world.

I remember sitting in front of my father's little black-and-white television as Ali's voice roared from the huge world outside and through the TV's tiny, rattling speaker. "I'm young and handsome and fast and pretty and can't possibly be beat," the voice said, and as I listened, I felt the glory train pass through me.

Over the next four decades, many of my life-defining events were connected to Ali, who turns 65 today.

In 1974, with Ali as stylistic mentor, I became a junior-lightweight kick boxer. In 1977, my girlfriend Lynn and I unsuccessfully tried to get married in Madison Square Garden at the Ali-Earnie Shavers fight. Then, in 1981, I sold my first story to a big national magazine; that piece concerned Ali's influence on my life. Yet, in 1986, frustrated by not being able to sell other (unrelated) stories I had written, I took a job as manager of a video-store chain in Ali's home state of Kentucky. By that time in my life, I seldom thought about him. He'd been a childhood obsession.

My first day in Louisville, on a driving tour with the company president, he pointed at a ranch-style house and said, "Muhammad Ali's mom lives there." From then on, whenever I passed by, my eyes zeroed in on the house. The Friday before Easter in 1988, a white motor home with license plates that read "THE GREATEST" was parked out front.

I worked up courage, went to the door, knocked. Ali opened the door, looking as big as God. He leaned under the frame to see me, waved me in, did magic tricks, invited me to stay for dinner.

For years after that, I saw a lot of Ali. I spent hundreds of hours with him and wrote stories about our friendship. My first book, "The Tao of Muhammad Ali," was a nonfiction novel about the ways my life intersected with his. Because of my childhood idol I could finally make a living doing the exact thing I most wanted to do: Ali made me a full-time writer.

*

Which brings me to the first time I met Ali face to face. It was July 1975. At the suggestion of my friend Bobby, who was Ali trainer Angelo Dundee's nephew, I'd driven 700 miles to Deer Lake, Pa., where Ali was preparing for a world title defense against British champion Joe Bugner.

Tugging on blood-red Everlast trunks I'd bought for the occasion, I heard him through the dressing room walls, exhorting spectators who'd each paid $1 to watch him train. "I'll prove to the world that I am not only the greatest boxer of all times," he said, "I am the greatest martial artist."

His was the most elemental voice I'd heard; it sounded huge, melodic, eternal. Listening to him made me so nervous I shook a little and felt I needed to urinate. The old guy strapping a pair of red leather gloves on my arms looked at me and laughed. "He won't hurt a little white boy like you," he said.

I was 22 years old, fierce and hard-bodied as a hornet, and no longer thought of myself as "little" or a "white boy." The old guy was stooped, his face long, his eyes yellow with age. "Naw, he won't hurt you," he said again. "Not too bad anyways."

Ali was standing in the center of the ring when I stepped through the ropes. Insect-looking splotches of dried blood dotted the porous canvas under my feet. As I stared up at him, he came into focus and everything else blurred. His skin was unmarked and without wrinkles, and he glowed in a way that could not be seen in photographs or on television.

He introduced me to the crowd as a "great karate master," an accolade I didn't merit. Then he opened his mouth steam shovel-wide, pointed his gloved left fist at me and, in a voice directed to no one in particular, but to the world in general, he shouted, "You must be a fool to get in the ring with me. When I'm through, you gonna think you been whupped by Bruce Lee.

"Are you scared? Are you scared? -- Just think who you're with. How's it feel, knowing you're in the ring with the greatest of all times?"

The bell rang and he danced to my right around the 20-foot square of taut canvas. Suddenly, I was no longer nervous. My thighs were strong and full of spring, there was looseness in my movement.

He bounced from side to side in front of me; I felt every step he took shoot into my feet and up my legs. I bent to the right, tossed a jab toward his belt line, straightened, snapped a long, tentative front-kick to his head. I figured it was the first kick he'd ever had thrown at him, but he pulled away as easily as if he'd been dodging feet his entire life.

He stopped dancing and stood flat-footed in front of me, studying my movements. I tried to lever in a jab from way outside. His eyes were bright, his face beaming and round and open. He waited until my punch was half an inch from his nose and pulled his head straight back. I punched nothing but air and dreams.

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